


Numberless Dreams

by Draycevixen



Series: Christmas Charade [1]
Category: The Professionals
Genre: Angst, Christmas, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-30
Updated: 2012-11-30
Packaged: 2017-11-19 22:47:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/578456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Draycevixen/pseuds/Draycevixen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bodie has to decide what to write.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Numberless Dreams

.

He stared at the blank paper, twirling his pen between his fingers, waiting for inspiration to strike. He'd been procrastinating for most of the day, going to the shops for bread and milk, dropping some clothes off at the dry cleaners and tackling _The Times_ crossword. He'd even cleaned his gun twice. He had to write something, there was simply no getting out of it, but what exactly?

He tilted his chair back from the kitchen table, staring up at the ceiling. It looked like the light shade needed cleaning. If he stood on the table he could reach it quite easily. It shouldn't take long to do, just some soapy water and... No. If he still had the urge to clean it afterwards then that's when he'd take care of it. He went back to staring at the ceiling. 

He'd heard a writer being interviewed on the radio once, one who'd talked about the need to visualize the person you wished to write about. Well that was easier said than done as Raymond Doyle never looked the same from one minute to the next. 

There was a small brown stain on one of the ceiling tiles. It looked old, probably nothing to worry about just a faded remnant of a slow leak. 

Like Ray’s eyes. On official forms they were ‘green’, but that didn't begin to describe them. Those eyes could be bright and big as saucers, like a kid seeing his first Knickerbocker Glory and knowing it was all his. Those same eyes could also darken and narrow without warning, clearly suggesting that that it might be less painful to rip your own spleen out rather than to wait for whatever Ray had in mind for you. He tried thinking about the broken cheekbone, Ray's Persian flaw, before his mind slithered back to the safety of his ceiling tile contemplations.

The tile next to the one with the small brown stain looked like it might be warped. How big a leak had it been? 

No, thinking about Ray's face wasn't helping at all. Now Ray's arse... He dropped the front legs of his chair back down to clatter against the floor as he jumped to his feet. 

A cup of tea, now that was what he really needed in order to concentrate properly. He stood with his back to the counter, waiting for the kettle to boil. 

Ray's arse was something worthy of its own sonnet. He glanced over at the kitchen table. Perhaps that was it... 

_How can my muse want subject to invent,  
While thy pert arse pour'st vim into my verse..._

Shakespeare would turn in his grave. So, nothing about Ray's arse then. How about... No, a more direct sentiment like _I want to fuck you_ wasn't any more suitable than the arse sonnet. 

The kettle boiled and he made the tea. He drank his first mugful still leaning against the counter, before pouring a second. The trip back across the kitchen to the table was reluctantly undertaken but successfully made. 

The longer he thought about it, between slurps from his mug and due consideration as to whether he preferred PG Tips to Tetley, the more it seemed a more emotion based approach might be in order. How did Ray make him feel? 

In a word, confused. He prided himself on his hard won ability to compartmentalize his feelings, lust, love and friendship all carefully separated. He knew from bitter experience their ability to cause a man permanent damage. 

He stared down at his hand, wrapped tightly around the pen. His nails really were getting a little too long. He got up from the table and walked into the bathroom to get his nail scissors. That wasted another five minutes before he returned to sit at the table. 

He'd noticed Ray's charms when they'd first been partnered but it hadn't caused him any undue stress. He'd had his pick of beautiful women and men ever since his voice had broke but had realized early on that his life would run more smoothly if he stuck with women, most of the time. Ray was undoubtedly attractive, even if he was the most singularly irritating person he had ever met, but not half as good looking as most of his other lovers and the risks clearly outweighed the benefits. If he concentrated very hard, he could still remember when he'd believed that, the days when he'd still been relatively immune to Ray's charms and still completely at ease in his company. 

Bodie got up to switch on the light and draw the curtains closed. 

After an initial intense and mutual dislike, their friendship had grown by leaps and bounds founded on deep-seated trust. Bodie had friends, people for whom he felt an intense loyalty, a loyalty forged between men who’d relied on each other in combat, but this was different. Ray was the closest thing to a brother he'd ever had. Bodie had been so delighted by the depth of their connection, by finding _family_ when he'd never really had anything worthy before of all that word implied, that the realization that he didn't just love Ray but was in love with him had blindsided him. 

In Ray he'd found everything he'd ever needed and never realized that he really wanted, love, friendship and desire, all hopelessly intertwined. 

_I bring you with reverent hands  
The books of my numberless dreams_

No, he couldn't write that down either although for the first time Bodie felt some real sympathy for Yeats. 

He rinsed out his mug and put it in the dish rack. 

Bodie wanted everything, of course he did, but he was a realist and there was just too much at stake. Ray was the best partner, the best friend that he'd ever had. What's more, he knew with absolute certainty that Ray loved him, even if that love was of a distinctly fraternal nature, and that Bodie would always have a prominent place in Ray's life. 

No, the risk was simply too great and he still didn't know what he was going to write, how he was going to say what he needed to say. The problem was that his head was full of other people's words.

_How should we like it were stars to burn_  
With a passion for us we could not return?  
If equal affection cannot be,  
Let the more loving one be me. 

It wasn't fair that it should be this way but then only a bloody fool thought life was fair. With Ray, he had more than he'd ever expected to have and that would have to be enough. That left Bodie with nothing to explain. 

He went back to the table and picked up the pen.

_Happy Christmas, Ray.  
All the best mate!_

_~ Bodie._

 

He slipped the Christmas card with a drunken Father Christmas on the front into its envelope and sealed it shut. 

 

.

**Author's Note:**

>  ~~Bodie~~ I butchered these two opening lines from Shakespeare's Sonnet 38:
> 
>  
> 
> _How can my Muse want subject to invent,_  
>  While thou dost breathe, that pour'st into my verse  
>  
> 
> ~0~0~0~
> 
>    
>  _I bring you with reverent hands_  
>  The books of my numberless dreams -- _A Poet to his Beloved_ by W.B. Yeats.
> 
>  _How should we like it were stars to burn_  
>  With a passion for us we could not return?  
> If equal affection cannot be,  
> Let the more loving one be me. -- _The More Loving One_ by W.H. Auden.


End file.
